


Geeks Do It with Paint

by ellipsisthegreat



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-08
Updated: 2011-12-08
Packaged: 2017-10-27 03:13:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/291021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellipsisthegreat/pseuds/ellipsisthegreat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by <a href="http://jim-and-bones.livejournal.com/529303.html">this post</a> over at <a href="http://jim-and-bones.livejournal.com/profile"><img/></a><a href="http://jim-and-bones.livejournal.com/"><b>jim_and_bones</b></a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Geeks Do It with Paint

**Author's Note:**

> Alternatively titled: In Which Elli Pops Her RPF Cherry Because Geeks in Glasses
> 
> Disclaimer: I guess Chris and Karl belong to themselves (but WITH each other, amirite?).

The guy who answers the door is naked.  
   
Well, mostly naked, with a towel draped around his waist and water dripping from his shaggy, shower-mussed hair. The guy squints at him, and Chris wishes he didn’t look like such a damn geek, right now, with his glasses slipping down his nose, a crate of nothing but books in his arms, and clothes Zach had warned him against wearing this morning. (He usually listens to Zach’s fashion advice, because if there’s anyone who perfectly fits that particular paradigm of gay-hood it’s Zachary Quinto. But he’d figured he should be comfortable while moving and these are damn comfy clothes for all that they look like something his mother would have dressed him in.)  
   
“Hello?” The guy asks, and Chris is so startled he nearly drops the crate.  
   
“Shit, I’m sorry,” he says. Christ, are English majors allowed to have such a chronic case of foot in mouth disease, or is Chris just phenomenally stupid? “I’m Chris. Chris Pine. I’m the new tenant?”  
   
“Oh! Roommate!” The guy exclaims. His mouth twists around the words with an unmistakably Australian or New Zealand accent. Chris has always had a thing for accents. And naked guys. And, holy hell, those _abs_. “I’m Karl Urban. C’mon in, mate, let me get some bloody clothes on.”  
   
Chris has to bite his tongue to keep from saying, “Don’t go and do that on _my_ account.” What he says is “No problem. Which room is mine?”  
   
“First door on the right,” Karl says, waving a hand in a vague direction as he disappears into what must be the bathroom. Or his bedroom.  
   
“Thanks,” he says, loudly enough to be heard through the door, but there’s no answer. He stands in the doorway for a minute, feeling distinctly awkward. He shakes his head and enters, surveying the apartment as he walks toward his designated room. His eyes get stuck on what looks like a small collection of swords in one corner of the room, and he runs into the wall. Cursing under his breath, he rights himself and nudges open the door to his room.  
   
Oh, God. No wonder Karl gave him this room—it’s hideous. Bright salmon pink with 60’s vomit green stripes, like someone ate an under-ripe watermelon and decided to punish all future tenants for their momentary misfortune. The bed is completely bare except for a frilly white canopy and matching runner, and the furniture is some amalgamation of every furniture store reject from the 70’s. Including a tie-dye bean bag chair.  
   
[](http://s1102.photobucket.com/albums/g453/ellipsisthegreat/?action=view&current=Chris1.png)  
   
“I already got permission to paint,” a voice says behind him. He jumps again, and this time he really does drop the crate of books. Luckily the crate misses his toes, but because he’d have no luck at all if it wasn’t for bad, the huge dictionary on top _jumps out of the crate_ and smashes down on his big toe.  
   
He lets out a stream of curses that makes him blush in hindsight.  
   
“Didn’t mean to—you alright?” Karl asks.  
   
“Yeah,” he says, and winces at the sarcasm he hears, because Karl sounds genuinely apologetic. Flexing his toe, he turns to face the other man. Oh, man, if Karl is straight he’s about to have the most uncomfortable, agonizing year of his life. It should be illegal for a man to look as good clothed as he does mostly naked. (Does it count as clothed if his shirt looks like it’s hanging on by, like, three or four buttons?) And he has on these gold-wire glasses that just shouldn’t look good on anyone but serves to make Karl look sexy and _cute_ at the same time. Also, _dimples_. “You’re helping me paint, though, dude.”  
   
Karl shrugs. “My room’s eye-rape purple with pansies along the top border. Pretty sure this place used to belong to a color blind grandma.”  
   
[](http://s1102.photobucket.com/albums/g453/ellipsisthegreat/?action=view&current=Karl1.png)  
   
“But the living room looks so _normal_ ,” he says plaintively.  
   
Karl laughs and holds out a hand. “Now I’m not naked and can see you…name’s Karl Urban. You can call me Karl. Or Urban, I guess. Honestly, you can call me anything except late for dinner.”  
   
“Chris Pine,” he says, taking Karl’s hand. Oh man oh man oh man. “Sorry, I’m not usually this…”  
   
“Adorkable?” Karl suggests.  
   
“Inarticulate,” he says, then pauses. “Did you just call me adorkable? Did you just _use the non-word_ adorkable?”  
   
“I did. Because you are,” Karl says.  
   
“This coming from a man with dimples and three strands of hair on his forehead,” Chris says.  
   
Karl laughs again. “I also play D&D and LARP on occasion.”  
   
Chris has a look on his face that must say ‘I don’t understand the words coming out of your mouth,’ because Karl laughs even more and says, “Dungeons and Dragons, and Live-Action Role Play. Although I only LARP at conventions, and I’m too poor to go to as many of those as I’d like.”  
   
And now Chris is absolutely completely and totally sure this year’s going to be torture, because he has somehow managed to find a roommate who is nerdy-er than he is.  
   
“Is that your sword collection in the living room?”  
   
“We’re the only two people in this apartment, mate. If it was someone else’s before now they’re shit out of luck,” Karl says. The he grins, his dimples getting even more prominent and showing off a very light sprinkle of freckles. “You want to go grab a coffee?”  
   
How can any guy be this _perfect_?  
   
Karl is bisexual and single, Chris finds out over coffee. He also looks ridiculously good with paint smeared across his face, which Chris doesn’t find out until they start painting a week later and Karl decides it’s impossible to paint without starting a fight.  
   
He starts it by sneaking up on Chris while Chris is  working on a corner, tongue poked out like it always does when he’s concentrating. The cold shock of paint on his otherwise overheated cheek nearly makes him drop his brush, and he turns, open-mouthed, to gape at Karl. Karl just grins at him and brings up his roller again—it feels like he’s painting a smiley face on Chris’ cheek.  
   
“You were just so _clean_ ,” Karl says by way of explanation. There are flecks of paint (boughs of pine green, which Chris refuses to read too far into) covering his face and shirt, and a big splotch in his hair like he just plopped his roller into the paint and brought it over his head.  
   
[](http://s1102.photobucket.com/albums/g453/ellipsisthegreat/?action=view&current=Karl2.png)  
   
Chris wonders vaguely if Karl knows this color brings out the green in his eyes.  
   
Karl giggles— _giggles_ —and dabs more paint on the tip of Chris’ nose, then turns to flounce away. Chris grabs his arm and splatters paint across his cheek.  
   
“Oh, it is _so_ on,” Karl says and tackles Chris. Chris makes a sound that definitely isn’t a squeal.  
   
“Where’d you even learn to do that?” Chris asks as he tries and fails to dodge another daub of paint, this time across his forehead. “D&D?”  
   
“Better,” Karl says, chuckling as Chris’ paintbrush hits a ticklish spot near his clavicle. “D&D LARP-ing.”  
   
“You are never allowed to call me adorkable again ever,” Chris says. Karl laughs again and rubs his paint-covered scruff against Chris’ neck. The rough rub of it brings Chris to the realization that his new roommate, Karl sex-on-legs Urban, is straddling him. In a tight, barely buttoned shirt (seriously, does this guy have some sort of weird button allergy, or what?) and worn jeans that hug his ass _just right_.  
   
Karl pulls back, glasses askew and Chris’ smeared thumbprint on his cheek, and Chris knows he’s just come to the same realization. He leans down, mouth hovering over Chris’ like he’s afraid to push past the final centimeter that’ll mean they’re kissing.  
   
Chris tilts his head up so their lips brush together. His eyes flutter close as Karl takes the initiative and presses harder against him, one arm braced against the floor as his other hand drops the roller and cups Chris’ face. He moans, arching up into the downward roll of Karl’s hips, and reaches up to fumble with the buttons on Karl’s shirt. Karl helps him, shrugging off one sleeve and then the other so their lips hardly part.  
   
“We should,” Chris says between kisses, “move to my room.” He gulps as Karl pushes off his shirt and mouths at his chest. “Bed.”  
   
“I’m not having sex with you under the grandma canopy,” Karl says into his navel, deft fingers undoing the button of Chris’ fly.  
   
Chris groans. “Don’t say ‘grandma’ with your mouth that close to my dick.”  
   
Karl snorts, the cool air of it raising goose bumps along the skin of Chris’ stomach. “Don’t use the words ‘grandma’ and ‘dick’ in the same sentence.”  
   
“If you’d just start sucking neither one of us could use _any_ words,” Chris says. Karl hums thoughtfully and closes his mouth around the head of Chris’ cock, and Chris’ brain shorts out. “Slow down, Karl, ‘m gonna, gonna…”  
   
Karl hums again, lips vibrating around Chris, and pulls away. “I’ll go fetch us some lube.”  
   
“Hurry,” Chris says, voice a distinct whine. He ignores Karl’s answering laugh. He reaches down and wraps a hand around himself, jerking lazily as he tries to wrap his mind around the fact that this is actually happening. In real life (he knows it isn’t a dream because in a dream lube would have magically appeared beside him).  
   
“Bloody fuck, you’re impatient,” Karl says as he reenters the room, tossing the half-used bottle of lube onto Chris’ chest. He shimmies out of his pants and drops to his knees on the floor next to Chris. “You mind topping from the bottom?”  
   
“Holy shit you’re perfect,” Chris says, hands grasping Karl’s hips as he’s straddled again. Karl laughs and kisses him again, mouth tasting of paint and Chinese food.  
   
Opening Karl up is a slow, lazy process brought on by the heat of the room. Neither of them minds, Chris biting his lip as he watches his fingers sink in and out of Karl, Karl’s eyelids fluttering when Chris hits his prostate. They moan when Chris finally lines up and presses in, their pelvises slotting together almost perfectly. Chris can’t get over the shudder he sees pass through Karl’s broad shoulders as the other man pushes himself up and down, one hand splayed out across Chris’ chest, head thrown back.  
   
He sits up so he can press open-mouthed kisses along Karl’s chest, and sighs into Karl’s mouth when their lips are drawn together, again. His hips stutter as his orgasm washes over him, drawn out of him by the feel of Karl clenching around him, Karl’s cum splashing across his chest.  
   
“Think we can find someone who won’t mind the canopy?” Karl asks.  
   
“We can get rid of the damned canopy,” Chris says, letting himself flop back onto the floor. His eyebrows crinkle as the question actually starts to get through to his brain. “Wait, what?”  
   
Karl snickers, rolling off of Chris but tangling their fingers together. “We’re doing this again, right? This room’s big enough for two.”  
   
“Moving a bit fast, there, tiger,” Chris says.  
   
“Fine,” Karl says. “But we’re fucking in here until you trash the canopy.”  
   
“Then you aren’t allowed to bring your swords in here,” Chris says.  
   
“Don’t want any competition for yours?” Karl asks.  
   
Chris groans and throws an arm over his eyes. “I don’t know you.”  
   
“Shut me up before I start making scabbard jokes,” Karl says.  
   
Chris does.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [](http://tresa-cho.livejournal.com/profile)[**tresa_cho**](http://tresa-cho.livejournal.com/) for wheedling at me so I didn’t just put “And then they had sex and went out for ice cream, the end” when writer’s block tried to set in. Although they totes went out for ice cream, eventually.
> 
> Also, this is the color they painted Chris’ room:
> 
> [   
> ](http://s1102.photobucket.com/albums/g453/ellipsisthegreat/?action=view&current=Chris2.png)
> 
> Brighter than I, personally, would prefer, but it was too good to pass up. They spend all their time in Karl’s room, anyhow. ;D
> 
> Paint swatches from [here](http://www.valsparpaint.com/en/explore-colors/color-selector/index.html).


End file.
